


Christmas Punch

by lyricwritesprose



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 20:24:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11409558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricwritesprose/pseuds/lyricwritesprose
Summary: After the events of "The Doctor, the Widow, and the Wardrobe," Rory has something very important to say to the Doctor.





	Christmas Punch

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of Christmas feel-good that has a bit of a bittersweet edge in light of later developments, but I think remains fairly sweet all the same. Unbetaed.

"Are you going to hit me?"

The Doctor didn't sound particularly upset, or even particularly wary. He just asked.

We were in the kitchen, and it was the first time I'd been alone with him since he showed up—randomly popping in at Christmas time, rather bashfully admitting that, oh, yeah, he _wasn't actually dead._ Which would have been a hell of a shock if River hadn't already told us.

"Doctor," I reminded him, "every time I've hit you, it had something to do with Amy dying." Including the time after he disintegrated her ganger, because he hadn't bothered to stop and explain the difference between _that_ ganger and the ones we'd run ourselves ragged trying to save. I think it honestly startled him a little that I didn't work it out instantly.

The Doctor nodded, looked away, and swiped a towel across a dish.

When I thought about it, I could see where the question came from. "I _would_ like to know," I said, as evenly as I could, "why it was necessary to make my wife cry."

He didn't look at me. "If I hadn't made it look real, they would have kept coming. After me, after you, after people I met in the shop . . ." His jaw worked. "They _had_ to think they'd won."

"I'm not talking about your death scene," I said. I'd thought about it. Amy was probably bugged—she was a ganger at the time—and the space suit definitely would have been. And much as I hated to admit it, I wasn't sure either Amy or I were good enough actors to pull something like that off. "I meant after."

He looked up, surprised. "After?"

"After time—reverted, or repaired itself, or whatever you call it when there aren't Roman chariots waiting at traffic lights. Amy—wasn't right." I've seen Amy angry at the world. I've seen her driving herself half mad trying to pretend that nothing is wrong, like she did after we lost Melody. I've seen her desperate. But I had never before seen her give up.

She seemed almost normal. More normal than usual for Amy, if that makes any sense, which was the really scary thing. She went to work, and came home, and pretended to smile at people, and if you weren't the one who held her when she cried into her pillow, you would never know.

"The way she was acting, it was just—lifeless. Like she was going through the motions, but there was no real point anymore. And she would cry—she could only cry in the dark . . ." I trailed off.

"I didn't realize." Very quiet.

"Yeah, and that's the bit I really don't get. It's not as if you're shy about what a big, sophisticated brain you have, and I _know_ you're good at getting people to do whatever you want. So how did you miss something a five-year-old could see coming?"

"I thought—" The Doctor made one of his helpless gestures. "I knew you would _grieve,_ yes, but I thought—given the things that happened before I left you here, the ways I let you down, what I've been in your life—I thought the relief would take the edge off it."

"Relief," I said flatly.

"Yes."

"That you were dead."

"Well, yes . . ."

"You thought we'd be relieved that you were _dead."_

He met my eyes. "Who wouldn't be?"

He meant it. It shook me a bit, how palpably he meant it.

I thought about that for a few moments. Then I sighed deeply and punched him.

He went over in a flail of limbs, narrowly missing our towel rack with his right hand and bringing down a stack of plates with a clatter. Other than that, he didn't make a sound.

"Rory?" Amy, in the other room.

I ignored her for the moment, in favor of bending down and grabbing the Doctor by the collar. "Now, you listen to me," I said, as calmly as I could, and then added, "you complete _idiot,"_ because I wasn't really as calm as all that. "You? _You're family._ You are family, and we forgive you your screw-ups even though some of them have been downright _monumental—"_ No, forget that bit, that was a distraction. "And," I went on, even though it felt bizarre, "we love you. Even when you're being a deceptive, manipulative alien _git._ We would miss you, and we would mourn you, and you are bloody well going to _deal_ with that. All right?"

Amy had come in on the last two sentences. "Rory." This time, it had an unspoken _explanation, now,_ trailing off the end of it.

I sat back. "He doesn't think he's worth crying over."

"Despite fleets of starships that think otherwise," Amy observed. "Which blotted out the _sun."_

"Yep."

"Do we have to call River to blow something up, then?"

I thought about it. "We could put a propeller beanie on him first . . ." I had to admit, I was tempted. I looked at the Doctor to see if he was alarmed by the idea— "Oh, come on, I didn't hit you that hard!"

The Doctor didn't stop crying, but he smiled, and it looked more sincere than I'd seen from him in a long, long time. "No," he whispered, "you didn't." He put his fingers to the teardrops. It looked very nearly like reverence. "Twice in one night. Twice in one _night."_

"Um. Are you all right?"

He opened his eyes, startled. "No, I'm good!" He swiped his sleeve across his face, which didn't do much. "Really, really—good."

Amy knelt down beside him, looking concerned. He put his arm around her, and then grabbed me into the hug as well, clinging to both of us as if he'd been drowning and only just found his way back to the surface.

I hugged him back, less awkwardly than I used to. Liar or not, idiot or not, it was good to see him, too.


End file.
